


Arrivals and Departures

by Miss Roylott (Cress221)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 08:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cress221/pseuds/Miss%20Roylott
Summary: After Watson attends a funeral for his brother, he makes a life-changing decision that he soon regrets. Takes place circa 1885, before Watson becomes a successful, published author, and thus before Holmes is made popular and famous by his stories.





	Arrivals and Departures

**Author's Note:**

> Dorothy L. Sayers originally proposed the theory that Watson's middle name is Hamish, because it is the Scottish equivalent to "James", and Mrs. Watson called him "James" in "Man with the Twisted Lip." Here, I have Watson's brother and father named Hamish instead, and leave John's middle initial "H" unknown.

After years of hearing nothing from his elder brother, or indeed the rest of his kith and kin in Scotland, Watson one day received the grim message that Hamish Watson, Jr., had met an untimely death, and that his funeral had been arranged by the extended family. "Untimely" was certainly correct; Hamish had been but a few years older than John, in what should have been the prime of his life.

"Watson?" Holmes broke abruptly into his friend's thoughts. "What is it? Bad news?"

Watson raised his eyes from the letter with an effort. "Yes, um, my brother has died suddenly."

"I had not known you had a brother. You have my condolences, my dear Watson."

"That's very kind, Holmes." He rose from his chair uncomfortably and reached for the Bradshaw. "I must travel to Edinburgh for the funeral, Holmes. Excuse me."

"Do let me know if I can help," Holmes called after him.

Watson nodded and only replied, "I have to pack," before disappearing inside his room.

It was only with difficulty that Watson later confessed to Holmes what exactly bothered him so much about his brother's death. The shame made it difficult for him to face Holmes, but he could no longer ignore Holmes's expressions of concern.

"Come, Watson," he whispered, placing his hand over Watson's as they sat at the dinner table together. "Tell me." Holmes had been the one eating, while Watson had merely picked at his food and brooded about the railway journey he would make in a few hours more. "I know something troubles you besides grief."

Watson swallowed and answered quietly, staring at his plate, "I blame myself for his death. He had a vice that frequently overcame him, and I warned him to give it up, but he only regarded me as an interfering nuisance. We became estranged over the issue, and I hadn't spoken to him in years."

"You should not blame yourself for that. If your brother was so stubborn, you could not have done anything to alter his path."

"I can't believe that! There must have been something else to do! I should have worked harder, I should not have gone away to London and let him out of my sight!"

"Watson, don't--"

"I mean," he clenched his fist and shook his head in frustration, "I might as well believe that it's futile for me to try changing you, to--" He realised what he was saying and bit his lip. Then he sprang from his chair and crossed over to the fireplace, gazing into the flames in silence.

But Holmes understood him now. He also rose and joined Watson by the fireplace. "Your brother was addicted to something? A drug?"

Watson nodded reluctantly. "Alcohol." He wanted to say something more about his brother's vice, and his accompanying vacillation between poverty and prosperity, but he realised he might offend Holmes with the implied comparison. They had argued many times over Holmes's occasional cocaine use, and Holmes had always insisted that he was not addicted.

Holmes stood nearer and placed his hand on Watson's shoulder. "I know your position well with regards to my seven-per-cent solution, Doctor. Let us not discuss that now."

He turned Watson slowly towards him, but the doctor averted his eyes to the ground and could not find his voice. Holmes stood near and spoke comfortingly, "Do not blame yourself for your brother's faults. You have done much good since then, for so many." He paused and watched Watson's face, then shook his head. "Most of all, do not regret coming to London. Never regret that."

Watson trembled when he felt Holmes's gentle kiss upon his cheek and could no longer contain himself. He laid his head against Holmes's shoulder and wept openly. Holmes held him for several moments before he pulled away, ashamed and embarrassed by his weakness.

"Watson," Holmes tried to approach him again.

"I-I think I'll catch an earlier train," he stammered, rushing into his room to destroy all evidence of his tears. He locked the door, which discouraged Holmes enough to leave him be. When Watson had recovered his composure, he picked up his bags and rushed out the door, without even stopping to look for and say good-bye to Holmes.

Later, during the long journey to Edinburgh, Watson deeply regretted his hasty departure and thought he better send a telegram of apology to Holmes, who had been so unusually kind and understanding. At the train's first stop, he dispatched a terse message: "I am sorry for this evening. My grief overcame me."

He omitted mentioning what had actually caused him to break down--Holmes's kiss. Watson had ached to kiss him back, to say so much more than he could find words for then. As the train rumbled northward, Watson toyed with a fantasy that if he had kissed Holmes then, much less chastely, he would have responded in kind. He imagined that Holmes might have embraced him passionately and taken him back to his bedroom, exhausting Watson's remaining hours in London with the most wicked, deviant acts.

But that was only a fantasy. Watson sat there alone in the first-class carriage, with the curtains closed and the door locked. He realised he should be ashamed of himself for that sinful indulgence, and he thought miserably of how disgusted Holmes surely would be, if he knew of Watson's indecent desires. Surely Holmes would not be as kind as he had been this evening. Watson grimaced and wished to heaven that he knew how to overcome his unnatural lust. Who was he to lecture Holmes about vices?

When Watson finally arrived in Edinburgh, a party of his distant relatives collected him at the station and brought him back to the old house that had been in the clan for generations. The place was shockingly rundown, and Watson felt glad that his parents had not lived to see how Hamish had squandered his inheritance and ended up a dissolute drunkard. Still Watson knew he should not speak ill of the dead, so he unpacked his bags and went to bed.

The next day, all the Watson kin living or temporarily staying in the vicinity assembled at the old house, and the solicitors made the unhappy but not surprising announcement that Hamish Watson, Jr. had died deeply in debt. Accordingly, his remaining property, including the old house, would have to be sold off to pay creditors, and it promised to be a humiliating experience. The Watsons had once been a family of note in the area, particularly when Hamish Watson, Sr. had lived, but now their antiques, and pride, would be lost in one fell swoop.

Thankfully, no one expected John Watson to be in charge of the sale, or any other difficult business, for that matter; he had been away from Edinburgh for so long that he was like an interloper passing briefly through a drama that would last long after he had returned to London.

The extended Watson family generally tolerated John like a curious and harmless stranger, and questioned him about his life faraway in London.

"Do you have a thriving practice?" one cousin asked him.

"No. Actually I don't have a practice--"

Someone interrupted. "You don't? But didn't you become a doctor years ago, John?"

He turned around to reply. "Yes, that was in 1878. Then I trained at Netley and joined the army as a surgeon--"

"But did you not get discharged yet? I could have sworn you said that in your last letter."

He turned again. "Well, yes, I had been wounded at Maiwand--"

An uncle tsked disapprovingly. "But that was back in 1880!"

"Yes--"

"So what are you doing now?"

Watson stammered that he was living on his wound pension and doing occasional work at Bart's. His inquisitors in turn pointed out that he had already worked at Bart's years ago, before the army and Afghanistan. They regarded him with dismay and bewilderment at his apparent stagnation.

Watson sighed and excused himself for a breath of fresh air, escaping quickly out into the neglected garden to walk and brood awhile. He knew he might have mentioned the writing he was doing and the cases he was sharing with Holmes, but that would have necessitated a long explanation about Holmes and his profession that he was not prepared to give yet. Somehow, the thought of discussing Holmes with his kin felt tantamount to admitting his guilty passion for him, so he avoided the topic.

Feeling calmer now, Watson strolled to another part of the house and looked in on the cataloguing being done in preparation for the sale. The old patriarch in charge was too efficient and business-minded to allow gossip, and he gladly welcomed Watson's assistance. While going through the heirlooms, Watson came across the watch that had belonged to his father, his brother, and occasionally the pawnbroker. He inquired about it and happily was permitted to save it from sale. One thing at least, would remain within the family.

At the funeral later, the senior members of the clan went through the motions with dignity and tradition, wanting to show their guests that the Watsons retained respectability even now. But another portion of the relatives visibly seethed with resentment for how the deceased had contributed to the decline of the family; their grief was for the reputation that had been marred, as well as the property soon to be lost at auction.

Watson could not blame them for such bitter feelings, since they had been nearby to suffer through Hamish's alcoholism for years, and he had not, but he tried to get through the occasion as quietly as possible. When his thoughts strayed to guilt about not having cured his brother, he found himself thinking of Holmes's words of comfort, and he felt better.

Stopping for a glass of water, Watson stumbled upon some kin who were surreptitiously murmuring about the ruin of the family, although they did not see him. He would have left them to their whispers, had they not mentioned his name.

"What did John say? He lives on his pension? But he's so young!"

"And certainly not wounded enough to prevent him from embarking on a new career!" one cousin smirked.

"Wasn't he a smart boy, though? Not indolent?"

"Well, look who else was a smart boy and didn't make much of himself either! I'm just glad that this fellow doesn't have a claim to anything that remains. We won't lose anything more through John, at least."

Watson withdrew soundlessly and went outside again, wandering aimlessly through the garden in an attempt to clear his head. He sank down in the shade of a favourite tree from his youth and considered his sorrowful state coldly. Yes, he had been invalided out of the army through no fault of his own, but he had never gone back to full-time work since then, letting his medical profession be superseded by his devotion to Holmes. If he never occasionally needed money, he would gladly spend all his days and nights following Holmes everywhere, on every case. Even if he had no prospects for publication, which was true enough now, he would still chronicle Holmes's life just for the pleasure of lingering over every word he spoke, every glance he gave. Watson had lived with Holmes for years at a standstill. An unhealthy standstill.

Watson sank his head upon his knees and ached even at that moment for his kiss.

So in those gloomy days surrounded by his kith and kin, Watson struggled with himself daily and compared his behaviour to that of his deceased brother. Surely his passion for Holmes would one day be the ruin of himself, if not Holmes as well?

Watson thought it best to cling to his roots for now, so he remained in Scotland well after the funeral, to assist his family with the auction and other remaining business. Some of the kin were really quite kind, and one avuncular relative asked Watson delicately if his problem in establishing a practice in London was the expense? If so, he could help Watson with a loan or professional contacts, and Watson seriously considered the offer. Perhaps if he simply obtained a practice and moved out of Baker Street, his unnatural ache for Holmes would lessen with the distance? Perhaps he would be able to overcome his weakness?

Yet that night as he lay in bed, the old cravings returned to him with full force. Watson had avoided thinking of Holmes that way lately, and had not even sent Holmes any further messages since his telegram on the way to Edinburgh. But now he could picture Holmes vividly and feel his kiss upon his cheek.

This led Watson to a painful, difficult decision. Moving to another residence in London would not be enough; a more drastic change was necessary.

After a discussion with his relatives in the morning, Watson wrote a letter of farewell, informing Holmes that he would not return to London, for he intended to remain here instead and become a full-time doctor again, with the financial help of his kin.

"I am very sorry for the short notice," he closed. "Good-bye, my dear friend." He posted the letter quickly and determined not to look back again.

* * *

For a time Watson succeeded, securing himself a practice and introducing himself around the vicinity so that patients would be aware of his presence. Some people were attracted by the sheer novelty of the former native returning home after years away, and he knew it would take some time before he ceased to be the subject of curiosity and gossip.

His farewell letter had asked Holmes to send the rest of his belongings from London, and he had believed that this would be a practical way to avoid seeing Holmes again. Yet when the trunks arrived, Watson could not help wondering if Holmes had packed them himself, or merely gotten a servant to do it. Certainly he had enclosed a brief letter that expressed surprise at Watson's decision, but wished him luck in the endeavour. It was Holmes's usual tone of detachment and reserve, of course.

Yet Watson found himself clinging to the note, studying Holmes's handwriting, trying to detect any remaining scent from his pipe-smoke, and picturing Holmes composing the letter at his desk. Watson ought to have destroyed the sheet in the nearest fire, but he could not.

So early one morning, after a fortnight of being lonely and unable to sleep, and a month of being away from London, Watson packed up his things anew and caught the first train from Edinburgh. It was madness, certainly.

"Damn what my relatives think!" he said to himself in the railway carriage, knowing that they would view him as a coward and delinquent once they discovered his departure. Well, he would make it up to them somehow, probably by finding and sending an up and coming doctor from Bart's to take his place. On the way to London, he sent another terse telegram to Holmes: "I've changed my mind. Expect me home today."

Holmes might actually think him mad too, but he decided to worry about explanations once he arrived at Baker Street. Watson came home in a four-wheeler laden with his luggage, and he rang the doorbell to have assistance.

Mrs. Hudson was startled but pleased by his arrival, quickly sending the servants to unload his belongings.

"Did Holmes not tell you of my return?" Watson asked.

"Mr. Holmes? Oh, I have not seen him all day, Doctor."

"You haven't?"

"No, he has not been at home. He has been gone a good deal lately."

Watson began to worry. "But did my telegram arrive?"

"Oh yes, a telegram did arrive, and I left it on the table upstairs."

He duly followed Mrs. Hudson up the seventeen steps. "Did he not leave instructions for forwarding his messages?"

"No. He used to be so good about having his telegrams reach him wherever he was, but no, Mr. Holmes hasn't done that lately."

"You don't know when he will return?"

"No, I'm sorry, Doctor." She patted his arm maternally, then changed the subject. "Why don't I make you your favourite meal, hmm? It is so good to have you back. Your letter about staying in Edinburgh was such a shock to us all."

Watson enjoyed Mrs. Hudson's welcoming gestures, but he grew more anxious about Holmes with every passing minute. Where could he be, and why had he not made arrangements for his messages? It was patently out of character for Holmes not to expect messages, either from one of his agents helping him on a current investigation or from a new client seeking a consultation.

Watson unpacked his bags and waited hour after hour, pacing the room in frustration. At midnight, he gave up on Holmes out of sheer exhaustion. Placing an empty portmanteau conspicuously near the door in the sitting-room, Watson tore open his telegram to Holmes and attached it to the strap, so that Holmes would not fail to read it. Then he retired to his bedroom, and slowly drifted off to sleep.

* * *

That night Watson awoke suddenly to an indistinct sound. He sat up and listened intently to some vague movement below, then heard the loud opening and shutting of a door.

Watson instantly got up and put on his dressing gown, venturing downstairs to Holmes's bedroom. In the corridor outside, he found dirty boots and a smelly overcoat carelessly tossed onto the floor, and among the garments lay a crumpled piece of paper, the very telegram that Watson had left for Holmes in the sitting-room.

It seemed that Holmes had read the message, though what he thought of it remained a mystery. In the deep silence, Watson wavered between the impulse to simply let Holmes have his rest tonight, and the ache to just see him after so long an absence.

As the clock struck two in the morning, Watson's weakness won out and he knocked softly at Holmes's door. Upon receiving no answer, Watson opened the door anyway and peeked into the darkened room.

"Holmes?" he called gently. "It's Watson. I'm sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to say hello; we can talk more in the morning."

Still Watson received no answer from the motionless figure upon the bed, so he concluded that Holmes must be asleep already. Rationalising to himself that he merely wished to allay his worries, Watson stepped into the room and shut the door behind him, approaching the bed so that he might see Holmes's condition.

His eyes adjusting to the darkness, Watson could see more clearly now that Holmes lay prostrate, still fully dressed and sprawled on top of the bedcovers as though he had simply thrown himself onto the bed in exhaustion, as carelessly as he had thrown off his boots and overcoat outside. Watson also noticed that Holmes's clothes were grimy and reeked of alcohol, cheap tobacco, and something else indefinable.

He stepped closer and reached to undress Holmes.

"Don't!" came the sharp rebuke.

Watson jerked back, startled.

Holmes shifted on the bed at last, turning his face to the side. "You've said your hello. Now say your good-night."

Watson caught his breath and stammered, "Holmes, I-I didn't know you were awake."

"Well, now you do. Good-night."

Watson frowned at the curt dismissal and began to retreat to the door. "Very well," he said. "But you should change your clothes and get properly into bed, Holmes. Otherwise, you certainly won't like the odour of your sheets in the morning."

Holmes snorted. "I like it just fine." The edge in his voice was harsher than Holmes's usual impatience whenever Watson nagged him about his health.

Watson hesitated within a few feet of the door. He observed Holmes's long, tense limbs shivering now from cold, and his dishevelled clothes seemed to speak insistently of some tale dark and desolate. Watson's medical instincts got the better of him, and he tried again, "If you're too tired, I can assist you, Holmes."

"No, Doctor. I believe you have other patients in Edinburgh."

Watson swallowed at the bitterness in Holmes's voice, all the more stark because Watson could imagine, but not see, the emotion upon Holmes's face. Holmes was clearly angry, and for something besides Watson disturbing him in the middle of the night.

Watson shook his head and tried to make amends. "Not anymore, Holmes. That was a mistake. I apologise for my... indecision. There'll be no more of it, I swear. I have returned permanently."

"Have you, then?" Holmes mocked him now, and still would not turn to face him.

Watson whispered contritely, "If you will have me." He feared now that he was no longer welcome in Baker Street, and might indeed have to find a practice in London and move out.

When Holmes did not answer, Watson came back to the bed and sat down near him, but Holmes immediately shrank away. Watson hung his head in sorrow. "I can explain it to you now or in the morning, Holmes. What do you want?"

Holmes could not care less. "Why bother with explanations? You'll be gone again in another month, won't you?"

"Holmes," he begged. "I know I've been thoughtless. Writing you a letter out of the blue. Not saying good-bye to your face. Not explaining--"

"Save your precious apologies for your family, who will surely be disappointed in your weakness, returning so soon to me!"

Had Holmes deduced at last Watson's weakness? It had long surprised Watson that Holmes continually regarded his devotion as innocent, long after it had turned impure. Was it that Holmes had a blind spot with Watson, or that he had no other close male friendships to compare their intimacy to?

Watson struggled for words. "I don't care what my relatives think. Only what you--"

"Of course you care!" Holmes accused, his voice ringing in the darkness. "Why else did you leave me, if not for their influence upon you? What did they say to you, Watson, that I was holding you back from greater things? That I was an addicted wastrel like your brother, dragging you down into the mud?"

Watson gasped in horror. "No, they never said--"

"And worse than that, you believed them!" Holmes continued acidly. "You followed their tedious advice and their wholesome recommendations to live without me." Holmes sat up at last, moving away from Watson on the bed.

Watson followed him in distress. "No, Holmes, it wasn't you--"

He cut off Watson's strained whisper by pushing at him fiercely. "You'd best get away before the contagion infects you again." He retreated to the other end of his bed and would not face Watson, even in the veil of darkness.

Frozen in place, Watson sat clutching his chest where Holmes had struck him, as if the wound penetrated much deeper than the surface. For several moments he was only able to swallow his pain. "I'm sorry," his voice broke finally through the tense silence of the room. He shook his head, blinking back tears. "I'm sorry."

Holmes crossed his arms forbiddingly and scorned the feeble words. When he heard Watson move behind him, crawling closer to him across the bed, Holmes warned icily, "Take care that you don't come too near a degenerate like me."

He heedlessly threw himself upon Holmes's mercy anyway, grasping his shoulders and clinging to them despite attempts to shrug him off. "It was never you, Holmes," Watson insisted again, "Never you. I was degenerate. Corrupt. Addicted..." He shook his head. "I couldn't live without you. You gave me every support and friendship, and I couldn't leave you, even long after I should have done. After..." he swallowed, "I loved you."

Holmes stopped pushing at Watson to release him, and his body suddenly stiffened with a strange rigidity. In the next moment, he turned sharply and looked down at Watson's head buried in his shoulder.

Watson closed his eyes, and kept confessing almost inaudibly, "I loved you... excessively. Indecently. I knew I had no right to; I dragged you down. The last time I saw you, when you kissed me, I... I wanted..." He shivered, continuing only with difficulty. "I had to leave you before I did something, before I ruined your reputation. I had to. But I couldn't, even still. I left you for your sake, and still I couldn't stay away, couldn't--" he shed tears of despair, pleading, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Holmes brushed Watson's face softly, feeling Watson tremble at the touch just as before, when Holmes had kissed his cheek. Holmes stared at him and raised his face upward.

Watson drew back, dreading what he would say or do, but Holmes pulled him close and kissed Watson's lips.

Watson blinked, confused and wishing he could read Holmes's face clearly in the darkness. Why did Holmes not push him away after that confession? Why was he not disgusted? Then the questions faded as Watson succumbed to desire and kissed him back passionately. He found no resistance as he drank in Holmes's warm, wet mouth, and their breaths mingled with a powerful intensity.

"Watson," Holmes spoke at last, "I thought--the way you compared me to your brother, I thought--" He sighed unhappily. "And your long silence, and your letter, implying that someone had talked you out of coming home..."

"Oh, Holmes!" Watson kissed him again, amazed that he could have been so insecure, and ecstatic that he returned his love. He smothered Holmes in kisses and pushed off his coat, laying him back down upon his bed.

Holmes seemed more than willing at first, but with a sharp motion, changing his mind, he retreated from Watson's arms with a choking, almost whimpering sound.

"Holmes?" Watson reached for him anxiously. "That was too much? It's too soon?"

"I have to tell you, I--" he swallowed, struggling for his voice. "When you deserted me, Watson, when I thought you were gone for good, I..." He shook his head and could no longer speak.

Needing to see Holmes's face, Watson lit the lamp on the night-stand, but Holmes turned away from the illumination and huddled under the bedcovers.

"Put that out," he protested urgently.

"Holmes, please." Leaving the lamp glowing dimly, he came near again and slid his arms around Holmes from behind. "What is it? What did I do?" He received no answer, and was hurt. "Do you--do you want me here?"

Holmes tentatively touched the arms embracing him, to reassure Watson, then he managed to reply in a faltering voice, "Would you want me, now? If you knew..." He grimaced and exhaled raggedly.

Watson burrowed nearer under the bedcovers and kissed his cheek. "I love you always," he said.

Holmes was silent for a long time, troubled by his thoughts.

Watson remained close, stubbornly caressing and soothing him until he saw some response flicker in Holmes's grey eyes. With much attention he was able to slowly coax the confession out of Holmes.

"I wanted to spite you," he whispered, closing his eyes. "You'd made me feel unworthy of you and unwanted. In your letter you wrote, 'They have persuaded me that I would be better for a change from the foul air of London, and my surrogate uncle schemes to have me working full-time again in a local practice. I am accepting his offer, as I have been too lazily fixed in your company all these years, and really ought to shake off my bachelor lifestyle at last. One cannot indulge one's idle interests forever.'

"It seemed that our time together was but an idle interest to you, an indulgent lifestyle that you would be better for shaking off. You seemed to imply that our fixed attachment was as foul as the air of London."

Watson held him tighter. "I did not mean that. I was thinking of my indulgence, my need for you, my foulness..."

Holmes sighed and kissed his hand with remorse. "I did not know. I only knew that you had abandoned me, and that you thought me... unhealthy for you."

"My dear Holmes." He smothered him in comforting kisses.

Holmes lay nearer to Watson and finally continued, speaking more quietly than before, "To spite you, to defy you, I did not stay at home and mourn your departure. I cursed you and the irrational feelings I had for you, and I barely kept from tossing your belongings into the Thames!" He lowered his voice again. "I--I adopted a foul, foul life, to prove that I knew the full meaning of the word, to prove that you meant nothing to me and were forgotten. There were..." he gulped, "strangers, and... perversions."

Watson absorbed this confession in silence, seeing the torment and regret in his face. Holmes judged his deeds during Watson's absence as the most appalling betrayal, even though Watson had made no claim to him at the time, and had treated him shabbily besides. Being human, Watson could understand spite, wounded pride, and denial of heartache; it did not diminish his love for Holmes, and in fact evoked a sense of wonder to see that Holmes truly did feel emotions as deeply as Watson did, if not more so, though he seldom revealed this capacity. Holmes had suffered no less than he had in these long weeks apart.

"My dear Holmes," Watson kissed and caressed him tenderly. He repeated simply, "I love you always," and held onto Holmes as if he would never let him go.

Holmes remained troubled, and Watson persisted with murmurs of forgiveness and also apology for his own neglect and wrong-headedness. Holmes withdrew from his touch, convinced that Watson could not have understood him right. "You don't know how many... What I did..."

Watson embraced him again stubbornly, and tried to turn Holmes's face toward him, but he kept shunning the lamplight. Then Watson unbuttoned and drew away part of Holmes's shirt so that he could kiss his shoulder, but soon found there an odd, recent scar upon his skin that made Holmes cringe from more than just pain. Watson watched his face, and asked softly, "Is this from your unspeakable acts?"

He did not reply.

"Tell me, if it helps to relieve your conscience."

Holmes shook his head and bit his lip. His eyes grew far away, and he no longer believed that Watson was really here, being so tender. Was it not some wishful delusion? Holmes said nothing and just lay there looking out toward his window.

Watson unbuttoned his own shirt and drew Holmes's hand to feel the faded lines of his war wound. "I have scars too, Holmes. Leave your mark upon me now." He kept coaxing Holmes to touch him elsewhere, and to know that the past did not matter, but it was to no avail. Against Holmes's protests and struggles, he returned to undressing Holmes, who whimpered as Watson found and examined the multitude of tell-tale bruises and scars upon his body, kissing each one as if to learn them all.

Holmes conceded that the marks would fade with time, but he still did not wish to face Watson just yet, and was only comfortable when Watson finally turned out the lamp. Then Watson returned to Holmes's side and fell silent with him, holding onto him tightly through the dark night, and thinking about where they might begin tomorrow to recover from the trauma of Watson's absence.


End file.
